


A Pure Man of the Soil and the Imitation Sun

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Ark Era, Canon Universe, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 05:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11983452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: Miller gets a note passed to him in the middle of Earth History that saysField B midnight if you canand his stomach just about flips over, not because getting caught in the fields at that hour is the Sky Box for sure, but because if he goes it will be the closest to alone he and Bryan have ever been and that means anything could happen.He looks up and catches Bryan's eye and nods. He'll be there, if he has to crawl through the air vents to do it.





	A Pure Man of the Soil and the Imitation Sun

There's no fucking privacy on the Ark. Miller's known this since he was a little kid, first phrased it in precisely that way when he was thirteen, in some random fit of early adolescent rage. The words have a more literal meaning now, three years later—now that he has an actual boyfriend and every time they so much as try to kiss at the entrance to Alpha Station there's some neighbor with a big mouth ready to talk about how David's son is growing up so fast. (Everyone knows everyone on the Ark but _everyone_ everyone knows the head of the Guard and somehow this translates into them thinking Miller's love life is their business, he still hasn't figured out exactly _why_.) It's obnoxious and embarrassing.

He could invite Bryan to his quarters, except that the only thing worse than being caught by a neighbor is being caught by David Miller himself. And then of course there’s Farm Station, but Bryan's parents are the nosy sort.

Then he gets a note passed to him in the middle of Earth History that says _Field B midnight if you can_ and his stomach just about flips over, not because getting caught in the fields at that hour is the Sky Box for sure, but because if he goes it will be the closest to alone he and Bryan have ever been and that means anything could happen.

He looks up and catches Bryan's eye and nods. He'll be there, if he has to crawl through the motherfucking air vents to do it.

*

Sneaking out and onto Farm Station turns out to be a lot less dramatic than a Mission Impossible style journey through the ventilation system, which is just as well. Bryan meets him down by the library and then keys in the code at the station door. Once they’re inside, he uses his thumb print to get them into the fields themselves.

"They approved me to work," he explains, as the door slides open. "Instant access."

"Does that mean you're going to move out soon, too?" Miller asks. They step across the threshold and the door shuts behind them with a slight hiss and click, locking them in with the plants and the silence. No one works a shift here at this hour. They are actually, for the first time ever, _alone_.

"I wish." Bryan leads them down a thin walkway between two large soy fields, then across a small bridge and to a ladder. "Farm Station's really crowded. Not a lot of single occupancy quarters left." He jumps up from the top ladder rung to the metal platform above, what Miller sees now is an observation deck for the entirety of Field B: small and a little unstable, a little loud when his boots hit the metal floor, but serviceable. Better than a hallway or a doorway or his quarters when his dad's always switching up his shifts.

"This will just have to do, I guess," he says. He pretends that this is a burden but he's grinning because the height and the thrill of being where he's not supposed to be and the smile on Bryan's face and how fucking perfect he looks in the dim after-hours light are all combining into just about the best feeling Miller's ever felt in his short life.

"‘Just have to do,’" Bryan repeats, mocking, rolling his eyes and trying to bite back his smile. Not trying very hard. He takes a step closer and grabs at Miller's hoodie, just a little rough, pulls him close. "You’re so judgmental. I happen to think the soy fields at night are incredibly romantic."

"Only someone from Farm Station would say that."

They're nose to nose and Miller's hand is sliding over Bryan’s hip, fingers starting to explore up under the hem of his shirt. His heart’s already beating faster with the intoxicating thrill of being this close.

"And what do Alpha kids find romantic, then?"

The view from the top of the arch is probably pretty romantic but before he can find a way to say that in a joking, snarky way, they’re kissing and he kind of doesn’t care about _words_ anymore. He's never gotten to kiss Bryan like this: slow, without distraction, without one ear always open for footsteps around the corner or on the other side of the door. He's never gotten to _appreciate_ a kiss before. And he feels it in Bryan too, how he takes his time opening his mouth to Miller's tongue; how he does not shove at Miller's hoodie but slides it off his shoulders with something like gentleness, or care; how when he pulls him forward a few steps he's careful not to let their feet tangle up in each other, careful not to let them trip; how when he finally breaks away, it's only to lean his forehead against Miller's and close his eyes.

"Fuck, I am so incredibly attracted to you." Miller breathes out the words without thinking; they just come to him in pure, unfiltered honesty, as if the part of him that feels embarrassment or uncertainty is too drunk off Bryan's lips and tongue and taste to even think about forcing him to shup up. Even when he hears the words out loud he doesn't care. Bryan laughs a little, breathless and soft.

"I am incredibly attracted to you, too," he murmurs.

"Yeah?" Miller raises his eyebrows. He tells himself to keep talking to keep the nervousness at bay. They're still standing toe to toe and Bryan's hands are skimming up under his shirt, and sometimes Bryan's gaze flicks up to his, but mostly he's staring at Miller's mouth and neck and chest. "Yeah?" Miller breathes again, his hands splayed out against Bryan's lower back, possessive and intimate. He's not sure he's ever touched him in quite this way before. But then, how could he? When has he ever had the chance? "How much?"

Bryan's smiling a slow, lazy smile, like he sees all of Miller's secrets. Like he knows why he's still talking. Maybe he feels Miller's nerves thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin.

"This much," he whispers, and pulls Miller's shirt off and to the floor.

This is truly a surreal moment in Miller's life, standing up above the soy fields in the middle of the dim Ark night, in the middle of the eternal space night, as his boyfriend kisses patterns against his chest and his lungs struggle to remember how to breathe.

_This much_ already feels like he's being torn apart and put back together again, and it's just Bryan's lips and the occasional graze of teeth or flash of tongue, just Bryan's hands grabbing at his hips and legs for balance, just Bryan on his fucking knees, his fingers skimming now around the top button on Miller's pants.

He almost says _You're trying to kill me_ when Bryan looks up at him like he's waiting for permission, but luckily he's got enough control to keep those words in his head, where they belong. Because they don't make sense, except for how dizzy he feels, and how unsteady this platform feels, and how his pulse is pounding too hard in his throat. He is definitely not scared. Because that would be dumb. He just has to swallow hard because his throat gets dry when Bryan leans back for a moment and pulls his own shirt over his head.

Not long ago, and years after the first unmemorable times they met, Farm Station had some sort of issue with their pipes, an annoyingly everyday sort of occurrence on this old broken-down ship. And because Alpha has the most of those still-scarce resources to share, the out-of-luck Farm residents trooped in to use their showers, and the bathrooms were a zoo for almost a full week. Which is how Miller first found out that scrawny, short Bryan from Intro Earth History had shot up and broadened out and started working out, too—had turned, in short, into the last sort of boy Miller would want to run into half-naked in a steam-filled communal shower room.

Or the first sort.

He was still getting used to the liking-boys thing, at the time.

Now his desires sit within him as naturally as his own skin over the frame of his muscles and bones, feel as everyday as his heartbeat, and his breath only catches a little, to see Bryan shirtless again and this time no stupid crowds of tired, sweaty field workers jostling them, but only the fields themselves, a quiet peaceful backdrop to the sound of Miller's zipper sliding down.

"This okay?" Bryan asks him, either because this is the polite thing to do or because of some embarrassing, uncertain expression on Miller's face.

He nods, and Bryan grins.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," he warns, but the way he's running his hands up the outside of Miller's legs and the bright, excited, aroused, exultant expression on his face is already enough to fuel a thousand erotic dreams, so Miller just shakes his head and mumbles:

"Don't worry about it."

He doesn't have any idea what he's doing either, to be fair. He can't admit it aloud, though, because all he's doing is standing, but it's not so easy even keeping himself upright when his boyfriend's tongue is running a circle around the head of his cock, tentative and curious and maddening, and he wants to close his eyes, and he needs to keep them open just to watch this. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He's holding on to the platform railings because every slight movement of their bodies makes the whole structure sway and he's dizzy enough without the floor beneath his feet betraying him. But he wants to grab Bryan's hair, touch his ears or his cheeks or grab his shoulders, wants more contact because from the first slide of lips over his cock he becomes greedy, and nothing's enough anymore. No amount of contact is enough.

Bryan's greedy too, and ambitious, and their quiet chocked-back noises join the creaking of the observation platform, interrupting the impenetrable stillness of the fields in the middle of the night. When Miller glances down again, he sees that Bryan has one hand around him, matching his mouth in its rhythm, and the other is palming himself through the fabric of his pants.

Somehow, that sight undoes him even more than the slip of tongue on the underside of his dick and he has to take a breath so deep it hurts his lungs just to stay steady.

He tips his head back and stares at the vaulting ceiling above them, the industrial pattern of gray on black, the support beams and the floodlights and the depthless dark in between, and for once in his life he wishes he could see the stars. After all these years seeing little more than stars and the distant, taunting green-blue orb of an Earth he'll never know, he wishes for those stars. He wants to be outside in the cool night breeze staring at pinpricks of light in the impossible distance, until he gets dizzy with them, so that when he looks down he's anchoring himself with the sight of Bryan's lips wrapped around him and his gaze, sliding up, meeting Miller's with the sort of honest, open look that makes his knees shake and go weak—and all the time the ground beneath their feet, steady and secure.

Even now he's dreaming about being on fucking Earth.

There's no air movement, just a stifling closeness, but still he can smell the dirt and the leaves, row upon row of green all around them, hidden in the dark. And that's something. It's enough to remind him that he's real when Bryan's cheeks hollow and his tongue—

"You're—better at this than you think," he mumbles, words so thick they get caught in his throat.

Bryan pulls back, tongue teasing patterns against sensitive skin, and whispers back, "Beginner's luck. Or I've just thought about it so much..."

Miller groans and almost pitches forward, catches himself with one hand gripping tight to Bryan's shoulder; he's pretty sure he's a goner now, or soon, and his toes curl in his boots, and he doesn't care.

When he comes it’s with his fingers of one hand digging into Bryan’s shoulder, the fingers of the other caught in his hair, and those stars he’d been imagining a moment before exploding across his vision, blinding him. A hard shiver passes through him, a visible frisson, as he comes down.

Only then, slowly, does he shift his weight to his heels, let his hands fall back to his sides, and regain his balance at last. Only then does Bryan sit back on his heels and look up at him. Even in the dim light, Miller can make out the lopsided grin on his face, the wild brightness in his eyes, his mussed hair and the red high on his cheeks. He looks debauched and dirty and—somehow, though it’s not a word Miller’s ever used for him before—oddly beautiful. It fucks him up to think that Bryan’s never looked like this before for anybody else.

He doesn’t bother zipping himself up again, just falls down to his knees with a crash that echoes all the way up to the ceiling, takes Bryan’s face in his hands and kisses him, open-mouthed, tongue-tangling and raw. The observation deck rattles beneath them as they grasp at each other. It sways and groans, a warning that it will not hold. But even if it crashed into the fields and took them with it, Miller wouldn’t care: he’s lost in post-orgasmic haze, the outside world pleasure-muted and everything between them pleasure-sharp, Bryan all lean muscle and sweat and sharp teeth, hard against his leg, hips grinding desperately up against hips.

Miller's still trying to find room for his arm, so he can somehow balance on his elbow and his knees, when Bryan shoves his arm between them and yanks his own zipper down. It takes a half-second too long to register in Miller’s blissed-out brain—they’re still kissing too, still reaching lips to lips and tongue to tongue whenever they can, aching for each other like this is the only way they can breathe—and another several seconds to understand that Bryan’s hand has grabbed his hand, that his own fingers are wrapped now around Bryan’s cock. Fuck. _Fuck_ , he wishes he could see it, had a better angle, but he has to learn by touch and that's almost enough, almost enough as his fingertips gauge size and shape, search out every vein, as his thumb grazes light over the soft skin of the head. "That what you want?" he hums out between kisses. "Want me to touch you? Want me to make you come?"

Bryan hums, a sound made up all of _h_ 's and _m_ 's and _o_ 's, and nods, and guides Miller's hand on him. That’s good, that’s good—it’s hot, Bryan underneath him, directing him, confident—and it’s good because Miller has no idea what he’s doing. He kind of figured he would, figured he’d just know on instinct, another boy’s body just a mirror of his own but it’s not. It’s better that it’s not. Bryan’s is a body he wants to spend hours and hours, ages, forever, learning, starting with these lessons read in the inelegant rhythm of Bryan’s hips, in the uneven gasping of his breath.

"I can—" he tries to say. "I can—go down on you if you—"

"Just want—this, I'm close—"

He's _close_. He's close because Miller's hand, finding its own rhythm now, is bringing him close, taking him toward that edge. Knowing this, he feels incredibly powerful. They are both _so powerful_ , all of Bryan's strength coiling up, reaching its peak, taut to the cadence Miller finds for it, as it builds to an intensity of pleasure beyond what it ever could have known before. Something like the pure ragged bliss Miller still has flowing through his own veins.

He pulls back just a little, so he can see Bryan's face; he'd like to say he's searching out and learning every detail of it, every bit of desperation in his eyes and lips and jaw yet all he can do (twist of his wrist, awkward in the tiny space, enough to make Bryan swallow down a too-loud pleading moan), all he can do is take him in as one whole being, one perfect image: the closest to absolute art anyone in space has ever seen. The most fucking handsome boy in humanity.

Bryan growls something deep and unintelligible and pulls Miller down again by the back of the neck. Kisses him hard and urgent and without grace.

Their teeth crack against each other and then Bryan bites down hard on Miller's lip, his body so tense that Miller's body tenses with it, and he comes without any other warning, all over Miller's hand and his own stomach.

Afterwards, everything—the very acts of breathing and living—feels uncertain. The whole ship spins. There is a sheen of sweat against Bryan's forehead and a dazed look in his eyes, like he's staring off toward something so much brighter and more beautiful than the shadows of the ceiling in the middle of the artificial night. He seems to notice, though, that Miller's staring at him, and when his gaze flicks back to Miller's face, he smiles, a wide smile, all teeth, and starts to laugh. And Miller starts to laugh, too, just as breathless. This isn't funny—making another boy come, that hard and that fast, isn't funny, and neither is getting sucked off by him, and neither is knowing you're up somewhere very high and very illegal in the very middle of the night with someone who, maybe, you could kind of love—but they're not laughing the way people laugh at jokes. They're laughing as if after a scare. They're laughing with gratefulness, with a deep and true-tested conviction of the beauty of still being alive.

Miller wipes his hand off on his pants and Bryan swipes at his stomach with his discarded shirt. They are still both an absolute mess. That matters just as little as the rickety sway of the observation deck beneath as they try to find some better, some more comfortable way to lie together; just as little as the hum of a generator, somewhere far off at the other end of the station, kicking into higher gear.

"That was fucking amazing," Bryan murmurs.

" _Fucking_ amazing," Miller agrees.

If they could, he'd want to spend the rest of the night up here. Fall asleep up here, arms wrapped around each other, wake up and kiss before they even speak a word, not knowing what time it is, not caring. It doesn't matter that the platform they're lying on is made of tough steel slats and that it digs into his back in all the wrong places, or that there’s not even enough room for them to lie shoulder to shoulder if they tried. It doesn’t matter, because below them, he can make out the deep green of the soy leaves multiplying out to the horizon, perfect long lean rows of them, growing quietly in their dirt, waiting to be bathed again in the manmade sun from the giant lights above. So many rows of them. So many rows of them, so far below, and the ceiling so high above, and the room so long Miller can't see the end of it. He can almost believe that they're out somewhere in the wild and free. He can close his eyes and breathe the closest air they have, up here, to Earth air. And he, Alpha kid who grew up with his father's gun and shock baton stored up on the high shelf by the entranceway, he can pretend he's a farmer too, a pure man of the soil and the imitation sun.

"How much longer can we stay?" he asks. They've moved, by now, through a series of tiny twists and almost unnoticeable turns, so that their arms are wrapped around each other in something like a hug, foreheads and noses touching, feet touching. Bryan's leg has circled around his leg, drawing him in.

"Not much longer," Bryan whispers back. "First shift starts early and we don't want to cut it close."

"Fuck."

"Mmmm—" Bryan laughs, an almost inaudible, soft sound, and presses a kiss against Miller's lips. "Yeah I know. We can take a few more minutes..."

Just a few. It's not enough, can't possibly be enough, but it's all they have, and in those moments before they disentangle themselves, get dressed again, climb down the observation deck ladder again, and leave, Miller focuses on nothing else but Bryan: on his mouth, his fingertips, his touch, the expansion of his lungs with each new breath—on every last detail of him that he can.

Somehow he already knows that, later, these last moments are the ones that he'll remember most.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
